Mr America
by Mhai-kun
Summary: Alfred F. Jones is, by all appearances, a run-of-the-mill American teenager, with part-time jobs, dates, and late nights out. But can any ordinary teenager work for an underground association that maintains what we call "world peace"?  One-shot


The Empire State Building, Broadway, Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty — what do these well-known landmarks all have in common? That's right, boys and girls, they can all be found in the best freaking city on the face of the earth: New York City, the U S of A.

Fun fact! NYC is the most populated city in America, and it also used to be the nation's capital.

Yeah… right. That's all really interesting and everything, but that's not why I'm talking about it.

What I actually mean to say — and pardon my French — is that I'm a _fucking_. _Proud_. _New. Yorker_.

I live in an apartment along Sutton Place in Midtown Manhattan, two blocks away from Central Park. When I'm not playing _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ or _Fantastic Four _or any of my other games on my Xbox (before you even THINK about commenting on my "horrible" taste — because SOMEbody had had enough tact to point that out to me before — let me tell you that I _collect_ video games, so finding two dozen or so suckish ones among the countless awesome ones in my stash isn't anything to go crazy about), I'm out wandering Times Square, which is just about the funnest place ever — well, y'know, besides Disneyworld, because I'm a child and am extremely proud of it.

And incidentally, at that very moment I was standing in line inside the _very_ conspicuous (and understandably crowded) Toys "R" Us store right in Times Square. The little girl in front of me was clutching her mother's pant leg in one hand and one of those Baby Alive dolls in the other.

Okay, hold on, wait, let me sidetrack for a minute, 'kay? It's a quarter after noon and I am dangerously low on protein. I forgot to stop by McD's today, so I feel pretty drained; my daily meat needs have not been met yet. I have to rant about something, so here goes. This won't take long, I promise.

Seriously, those things scare the crap out of me — the Baby Alive dolls, not the meat (meat is my friend). Why the hell do they _talk _like that? And they _shit and piss_, too! For all you know, in the middle of the night it could get up and strangle you in your sleep and piss all over your cold, dead face! I don't know why, but whenever I look into a doll's eyes I feel like it's staring straight into my soul or something.

…Moving right along, I turned my attention to the reason I had come down here in the first place: the brightly colored plastic toy in my arms. I immediately felt a hundred percent better just _looking _at it.

As a subject of interest, here's the totally amazing back-story (according to this article I read once, the word _back-story_'s apparently been banned — they said _flashback_ sounds better, but let's just stick with this) behind this little trip to the toy store: I'd seen this advertisement for a new water gun in a rolled-up magazine that my neighbor had left outside his door this morning (I don't think his purple-haired, vampire-obsessed teenage daughter approved of the less-than-friendly remarks on Edward Cullen's repulsively sparkly skin on page forty-two); it was called the "Hydro Cannon", and it had a firing range of a whopping thirty-five feet! C'mon, what water gun has a range like _that_? So I just felt that I _had_ to buy it, you know? On principle, or whatever it is you call it.

I'd scoured every single aisle and shelf in Toys "R" Us, resisting the overwhelming temptation to buy a hell of a lot of other really cool things (including a Barbie dollhouse, but don't ask), when I'd finally seen it.

_Ah, there it is_, I'd thought, _in all its bright, colorful plastic awesomeness. _Pure poetry.

Now I was holding it in my own two hands, basking in the radiance of its fresh-from-the-factory glory and eagerly anticipating how I would soon be able to unleash its untapped potential. Not only that, but _man_, did it look cool! I couldn't wait to try it out at the next pool party I was invited to! Bragging rights, people; I've got dibbs.

Just then, my pool party daydream, in which I was the center of attention — as if you could have expected anything less from me — was interrupted by something that vibrated in my pants, tickling me in… well, inappropriate places; it was my iPhone, loudly playing the lyrics of "_Canadian Idiot_" from my jeans pocket.

Completely oblivious to the stares of the people around me, I fished it out and grinned when I saw the caller ID.

"Howdy," I said into the phone, adopting a perfect Texan accent. "You've reached the one and only hero! What can I do for ya, pardner?"

The British voice on the other end of the line sounded annoyed. I snickered; the times when he sounded annoyed were always the best times to mess up.

"So. You're miffed about something again today, huh? Not that _that_ surprises me; wouldn't be the first time you answered your phone like a grizzly that's been woken up from hibernation three weeks before spring." I smirked, and I'm pretty sure he could hear the smirk in the way I said "that".

"You're referring to yourself as 'the hero' now?" the voice said irritably, choosing to ignore my comment on his unbelievably predictable (and unnatural to the point of abnormality) short-temperedness. "The last time I called you told me to address you as 'Mr. All-American' — as if you ever even _played _on an American football team, let alone attend college."

"Oooooh! _Burn_!" I pretended to howl as though I'd taken an extreme offense in what he'd just said. Then I laughed. "Will you cut the crap, bro? I got a good education, even if I _didn't _go to college," I said easily; I wasn't going to let his negativity ruin my good mood. "Sure, it was no prestigious rich-kid prep school, but I had tons of fun — enough to supply me with a warehouse full of interesting memories to tell my grandchildren about when I'm finally too old to scratch my ankles. And I did _too_ play football! You don't have to be in _college_ to play, you clueless British ding-a-ling. I played back in high school, don't you remember? I showed you a picture when I flew to see you in London. You know, the one where I'd broken my nose but still looked amazingly handsome. The blood _did _make me look badass, though, huh?"

"Which high school was that?" the voice on the other end of the line muttered huskily. "The first or the fourth? I forget."

I could hear him blushing, and I resisted the urge to snicker — which I managed only barely. I heard him mutter something about how he'd preferred the bloody-faced, crooked-nosed me a lot better.

"So which will it be?" he asked, obviously unserious. He'd avoided answering my question about the photograph and had returned to the topic regarding what _name _he should call me. His voice was dripping with sarcasm, but I could tell that he really _was _blushing this time. I really don't appreciate sarcasm if it doesn't come from me, but I decided to keep my mood light and try to infect him with it. I'm pretty contagious.

"We-e-e-e-ll…," I said innocently, playing his game. "Since you _r-e-e-e-a-a-ally _want to know… You could call me 'Master'. Oh, and throw in a pair of bunny ears too, please."

"Look, if it's not too difficult for that tiny brain of yours to understand, at least _try_ and refrain from taking the mickey out of me while I'm having my afternoon tea. You're ruining its flavor."

Success. I had taken away his shyness and had replaced it with his usual snappy temperament.

"I have absolutely no idea what Mickey has to do with tea flavor, but that's not the only thing that I find hard to understand. I seriously don't get you," I said amusedly, cradling the phone between my shoulder and my cheek as I reached into my jacket for my battered leather wallet. "Tea's not even that good! Coffee's waaaaaay better. And besides, I think the whole hero thing fits me perfectly, wouldn't'cha agree?"

The voice sighed, filling my ear with the scratchy sound of static. "To be honest, I'll never understand _your_ way of thinking either. If American heroes are supposed to be idiotic and gluttonous on purpose, maybe _then_ it would make more sense."

I laughed. However, I still refused to get angry. I was in a happy place, and today it was literal. "Whatever. So why didja call? I'm kinda in the middle of something here. But wait — are you finally having second thoughts about eating a Big Mac? 'Cause if you are, I'm _so_ there! I've been waiting for this since Easter!"

"No, I wouldn't care to get my nose anywhere _near_ those things. And what in the world would _you_ be busy with? Not at the playground are you?" the voice said snidely.

I shook my head. T_his guy's such a jerk. But let's do things his way and make this conversation a bit more interesting._

"Don't be stupid," I said, using my "I-have-now-been-emotionally-injured" voice. "I'm in line at Toys 'R' Us, you sillyhead! I'm actually just about to pay for my new water gun. Wanna come over to my place and play with it? I know you want to. Working in an office must be hell, you _deserve_ a break. I'll even let you try it out first! Won't that be fantabulous?"

I heard him grumble in frustration. Messing with this guy was the most extreme (and most effective) form of stress relief.

"I appreciate your… invitation, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline," the voice said. "A _toy store_…," it muttered. "Now _that's_ completely typical. I can't believe I didn't think of it myself. Anyway, that's not important. I only called to say that we need you here at once."

I raised an eyebrow and dropped my cheerful tone. "What, as in _now_?"

"Yes, you incompetent prat, _now_," the voice said impatiently. "The both of us are already here. _You're_ the only one we're waiting for. So if the world gets destroyed within the few minutes that you are _not_ present, then we're taking away your status, wealth, power, credibility, fame, et cetera."

Wait, what?

"Whoa, hold up a sec and _rewind_. _Both _of you are there? Are you kidding me?" I said disbelievingly. I was as good as dead if among the three of us I'd be the last to arrive! I could almost picture myself, eyes as round as saucers, skin drained of color — the very epitome of an overreacting cartoon character. Might as well stick me in a comic and sell it on the internet.

"Oh my God," I mumbled. "It's gonna be a major embarrassment if I show up any later. Fuck, fuck, fuck, why didn't you tell me sooner? You could've texted or e-mailed or tweeted or something! Don't you have Twitter? Haven't you ever heard of IM-ing? You could've even contacted me through FaceBook, I'm always online! Don't tell me you don't have internet in Britain! You've _gotta_ be fucking with me!"

The little girl with the Baby Alive doll, whom I hadn't noticed had been watching me since I accepted this call, started gleefully repeating the "F" word while her mother tried to shush her up, glancing around at the other people in line apologetically and pausing only to glower at me with disgust. This wasn't a problem for me, though; she was probably gonna forget me the moment she saw a chain smoker or a body builder with a dragon tattoo out on the street.

"No, I am not 'fucking with you', seeing as we are both male (and even if I _were _a woman I'd never allow you to get your winkle _that _close, that would be simply revolting)," the voice said coolly. It ticked me off whenever he took my words literally on purpose and made me look like a big fat idiot. I wanted to take a pair of kitchen scissors and shave his scruffy head bald. "Oh, and do me a favor: Wash that foul mouth of yours before I come down there and do it for you. As soon as you're done with that, get your arse down here. No ifs, no buts, and _no excuses_."

The line went dead. I shoved the iPhone back into my pocket and stepped up to the cashier lady, pushing aside my annoyance for the moment. I handed her a hundred-dollar bill, winked and told her to keep the change while she blushed furiously (yes, I was that attractive), and hurried outside. I leapt onto my bike and pedaled as hard as I could back to my apartment.

* * *

><p>When I arrived at the apartment complex, I parked my bike outside and took the stairs three steps at a time. I know I could have easily used the elevator (which was still working even though it look rickety and unsafe), but I rarely ever get any exercise, so this was probably going to be one of the best chances I got for this month. The most exercise I've had so far is that one day in January when I'd been hired to walk a dozen dogs while I'd been stuck with a God-awful hangover; I still don't know which manhole that Chihuahua'd fallen into.<p>

I reached the fourth floor and sprinted to the end of the hall where my room was. After I opened the nondescript, cream-colored door with my only key (psh, spares are for chumps), I threw the key along with the Hydro Cannon on the kitchen table and locked the door behind me.

My apartment wasn't really classy when I first moved in, with one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a small living room, but after a few years — and thanks to my part-time jobs working as a delivery guy for several fast food joints — I was able to prep the place up until it became unrecognizable. And in case you're not willing to believe that a job as a delivery guy (even though I work for a LOT of fast food joints) earns me enough greens to turn my pad into a movie-star-worthy condo, then I guess I'm gonna have to inform you that being the most charismatic guy in the NYC has its advantages. When I ride my Yamaha motorbike to deliver a pizza to the pretty, sixteen-year-old brunette in the next neighborhood? Instant $50 tip — _plus_ a date to the movies. Cha-_ching_.

Now allow me to get to the part where I tell you _exactly _how I prepped up my apartment.

My bedroom's my "space", and it reflects my personality more than the rest of the apartment put together. The color scheme is mostly red, white, and blue — I flaunt my country's colors like the junk my father gave me. I have posters of Spidey and Superman and every other Marvel and Capcom hero on the left wall, and I even have one of Chuck Norris — framed and complete with autograph! I had to pay an arm and a leg to get my hands on it, but it was _so _worth it. The U.S. Flag is pinned to my headboard, which accentuates my unmistakable American-ness. Americanity. Whatever. There's a huge stack of assorted comic books (classic and modern) on the floor next to my bed. Forget the cheesy bedtime fairytales, I like reading action comics before I go to sleep.

And thanks to one of my more high-paying jobs at a casino in Vegas once, I managed to install a small Jacuzzi inside my bathroom, and I even have a special rubber ducky to play with in there — but don't tell ANYONE about that. If you do, I might as well be standing at your doorstep holding a chainsaw. Then again, a gruesome, bloody, horrific, Final-Destination-esque death by a chainsaw in the hands a sexy, irresistible, one-of-a-kind dude like me is probably the best deal you could ever get, sweetheart. If you're a guy, ignore what I just said.

My kitchen cupboards are full to bursting with Lucky Charms, Apple Jacks, Cheerios, Rice Krispies, everything cereal, peanut butter and jelly, hamburger buns, Cheetos — among other things — EXCEPT marmite, because marmite freaks me out almost as much as the Baby Alive dolls. Meanwhile, my fridge is jam-packed with cola and hamburger ingredients, and the freezer's stuffed with TV dinners. Hey, I'm a single guy here; did you seriously expect me to know how to cook?

Last but not least is my living room: My _real _happy place, which is neck and neck with my bedroom — but only because all of my gaming consoles are in there. If somehow a rhino were to come rampaging inside the living room, I'd have to sell off everything I own (including the apartment) just to get back at least a fourth of the money I'd spent on those babies. I have an Xbox 360, the PlayStations 1, 2, and 3, a Wii, and a GameCube, all clustered around my mega-huge plasma screen (which happens to be equipped with surround-sound) like adorable kittens nestled around their mother. On a glass desk a few feet away from the TV is my personalized Mac book (it has the star-spangledly awesome flag of the U.S. on it), sitting amidst my Nintendo DS and DSI, iPad, iPod, and PSP. I even have a private collection of some of the "grandpa" consoles, but no way in hell am I telling you where I keep 'em. Sorry, but it's a safety measure I've been taking for a while now. Ever since a guy from the neighborhood came over to watch a movie and accidentally sat on my old Game Boy, I never let anyone see them anymore. I'm kinda like they're overprotective dad — y'know, the type that never lets them leave the house or talk to strangers or date newer, younger consoles. I also have this really comfy couch where I can just lie down and play all day without my back aching, and this super-squishy bean bag that I can sit in when I want to get more serious with gaming.

I was about to continue my game of _Guitar Hero: Warriors of Rock_ when I remembered that that English jerk wanted to speak with me. And as usual, his timing was awful.

_Jeez, that guy really knows how to torture._

I picked up the screwdriver on the (almost empty) bookshelf next to the doorway and unscrewed the light switch panel. Behind it, instead of the usual wires and metal you'd expect to find, was a shiny red button, exactly the kind that no one would be able to resist pressing. I pushed it, and at once the entire back wall of my apartment slid open, revealing a high-tech-looking space of glass, stainless steel, and strategic bluish-white lighting.

I smiled. It's show time, baby!

* * *

><p>Okay, you don't have to tell me that the "secret room behind the secret wall" thing is cliché, because I already know that. What does it matter if it's a little old school? I think it's frigging cool! Whoa, I made a rhyme. And besides, the secret room behind the secret wall in MY apartment, which I named my "Bat Cave" (please, for the sake of us both, don't comment), looks like something right out of a sci-fi movie — decades into the future, that is. And of course, yours truly designed it himself. If you're wondering how I managed to wedge this room into the closet that I call my apartment, all I can tell you is that I know a few people.<p>

There's a large screen built into the wall on the far end with a high-backed, plush swivel chair five feet in front of it on a raised platform; it's the type of fancy swivel chair that the stereotypical bad guy would sit in, just to turn around in it, face the good guy, sand say "I've been expecting you", all the while caressing some sort of diabolical pet — which, by the way, is something I've always wanted to do. Not the diabolical-pet-caressing part, just the turning-around-in-the-swivel-chair-and-saying-"I've been expecting you" part. A metallic silver circle embedded in the floor marks the center of the room, and the specialized tiles are fixed with the same kind of lights as a disco. The lights on the ceiling are motion-activated. It's not much, but underneath and behind everything is stuff that would put _Star Wars _to shame.

I stepped into the room and onto the silver circle. A hologram appeared around me at once, showing me a variety of outfits that I could choose from: Waiter, bartender, golfer, private high schooler, businessman, soldier, mailman, conductor, fisherman, chef, butler — there was literally everything. I was sorely tempted to put on a sailor suit and totally piss the hell out of that Englishman, but I suddenly remembered that the commie was going to be there, too, so in the end I chose a single-breasted suit that looked a lot like one the Men in Black would wear; only I'd be fighting things a hell of a lot worse than aliens.

The suit descended from another sliding panel in the ceiling, and I started dressing, kicking off my sneakers and putting on a pair of stylish dress shoes. I moved my iPhone from my jeans into my jacket. Holographic full-length mirrors flashed themselves before me, encasing me in an octagonal pod and replacing the wide array of holographic outfits so that I was able to see myself from every angle.

"Lookin' good!" I told my reflection.

Standing at five feet and nine inches tall, the smartly dressed young man I saw in the mirror outranked James Bond by a long shot in my opinion, even with the messy, undyed, natural blonde hair (Hear that, girls? I'm a _natural _blonde, and everyone knows we _natural _blondes have more fun) — but what was the point in taming it, anyway? There's a single strand that sticks up on the right side of my head where I part my hair, and trust me, I've tried _everything _— hairspray, hair gel, hair cement, hair wax, peanut butter (and strawberry jelly, naturally) — you name it. Nothing works, so I gave up on _that _Mission Impossible a loooong time ago. My eyes are a bright blue behind my glasses, and they were twinkling with mischief; that's just one of my more charming features. In other words, for a nineteen-year-old, I'm downright hot. And that's right, ladies: I'm available! (Remember the pretty brunette in the other neighborhood who gives me fifty-dollar tips when I deliver pizzas I told you about? Forget about her — I belong to the fans. Wink.)

I walked right through the hologram, which prompted it to disintegrate into pixelated dust, jumped up the platform, and sank into the swivel chair. A cylindrical pedestal rose out of the floor next to me, and I pressed my thumb to the thumbprint scanner. After I heard the _ping_ sound that meant my thumbprint matched the one in the database, an almost-paper-thin keyboard slid out of the wall in front of me and I typed in my password.

At once, the ginormous screen flickered to life, and the live feed window divided itself into two sections. In the left frame was the image of a smiling man with a prominent nose and violet eyes. In the right frame was an irate-looking man with tousled blonde hair.

He — I mean, the one on the right — glared at me mercilessly with his emerald green eyes as though I were the most repulsive thing he'd ever seen, his bushy black eyebrows joined together in the middle of his forehead, making it look as though he had a fat black caterpillar stitched to his skin. I managed to stifle a laugh. I actually hadn't seen his face in a while, and it was comforting to see that he hadn't changed at all. Change still catches me by surprise sometimes. You can't really be prepared for it. It just happens — especially when you least expect it to pay you a visit.

"You took long enough," caterpillar-brow said, the corner of his mouth twitching at my pained expression — I think I had cracked a rib from trying to hold my laugh in. He _"harrumphed"_ indignantly and I cleared my throat.

I managed a grin. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that," I said casually, typing in the code that sealed my secret room with a shield of soundproof glass with one hand and rubbing my chest gingerly with the other, feeling for any other casualties. Thankfully, there were none. "I live a _little _far away from Times Square, and biking back and forth isn't exactly easy, old man. Try it yourself. Then you'd be eating your own words."

"Oi," the Englishman said angrily, going pink. "Do you mean to say that twenty-three is _old_, you insufferable little —?"

The one on the left chuckled lightly and put his hands together beneath his chin as though in prayer. His tan scarf fluttered as if a gentle breeze had just swept by, but that couldn't have happened; I knew for a fact that he was based _indoors_, in the _basement_,and that it was so cold in Russia that he would never _need_ an A/C in there. He gave me the creeps.

"Let him off this time, Arthur," he said in a heavy Russian accent, addressing the Englishman. "He got here as fast as he could. Though I suppose he could have pedaled a bit faster, because I don't like to be kept waiting. I would rather have dragged him to his shtab-kvartira."

"Apparently, 'fast' doesn't count for very much, does it, Ivan?" the thick-browed Arthur said haughtily.

"Ivan" is pronounced "EE-vahn", by the way. I just thought I should tell you, in case you meet him on the street. Highly unlikely, but you never know.

"Come on, Arthur, chill out. I'm here now, aren't I?" I said with a huge smile. "And Ivan isn't mad, so you should cool it too. It's good for the heart, y'know. 'Keeps you looking pretty. I've been trying to get you to laugh all day, and I can't even get a single giggle out of you." I shook my head in mock disappointment. "You're gonna die young and alone."

"Da," Ivan said good-naturedly (only his eyes betrayed his easygoing approach to things; they were twinkling with malice, and I wondered for a moment whether he was genuinely considering killing me), "but it would be best if we stopped delaying. My patience is wearing thin; I think I'm on the brink of cleaving this screen in half with a pickaxe."

"Understood," I said. I saluted them both solemnly. "Alfred F. Jones, sirs, reporting for duty!"

* * *

><p>"So, what's going on?" I asked, leaning against the armrest and looking up expectantly at the pair of them.<p>

"Well, put simply, they're up to it again," Arthur Kirkland said, now grave, flashing a high-resolution jpeg onto my screen. If I hadn't seen hundreds of pictures like this before, I would have passed out — or, more accurately, pissed my pants. "They've been more active than usual lately, and our analysts still haven't figured out exactly why. There's never been a case quite like this before. Instead of the incidents being concentrated within a certain location, they've been breaking out all over the globe at different levels of gravity and at random intervals. It's unnerving how frequent they have become. None of the occurrences seem at all related, which leaves us baffled. I'll fax you some of the information that the lab has managed to get as a result of their recent behavioral patterns."

His mussy, straw-colored head ducked out of view for a few seconds before he straightened up and smoothed the lapel of his impeccably pressed suit.

Sure enough, my fax machine started beeping, so I ran to get it and returned just as soon. My eyes scanned the pages. _Outbreak of vandalism in Venice, Italy… gang fights in Shibuya, Japan… sudden appearance of unexplainable smog in Hamburg, Germany… mass murder in Paris, France… rallies in Beijing, China… national leaders arguing over trivial issues… _The list went on and on; it was startlingly long.

I let out a long, low whistle and tucked the fax into my breast pocket for later reference. "Yikes. That bad, huh?"

"Da," Ivan Braginski said again. "And as you can see, this time they're trying to take down your Washington Monument. They're really starting to get on my nerves with all the trouble they've been stirring up of late. If only I were close enough, I would kill them myself; I would kill them so brutally that they would wish they had never crossed paths with us. Of course, those vulgar objects would never be able to wish, so I guess it wouldn't be as fun after all. It wouldn't be worth crossing oceans."

The way he said that with an innocent voice and a childish smile sent shivers down my spine, making the sparse hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"So it's up to you, Alfie," Ivan concluded pleasantly. He's blissfully unaware of the horror movie effect he has on people. Lucky him, then.

"What, seriously?" I said. "I'm only nineteen, you guys, and I can't do it on my own. Just 'cause the location _happens_ to be within my jurisdiction doesn't mean that I have to deal with 'em all by myself, does it?"

"Don't give me that age bull, Alfred," Arthur said, looking stern. "We all know how old you _really _are, anyway."

"Didn't catch that last part, sorry," I said brightly. "At least _I'm_ not twenty-three. _I'm_ just a _teenager_." I put a lot of emphasis on the word "teenager". I knew that teasing him about how "old" he was would aggravate him more, which, as you should already have guessed, is something that brings me genuine happiness. And as I'd hoped, the caterpillar on his forehead started twitching like it was having an epileptic fit.

"Oh, lighten up, Arthur," Ivan said pleasantly. "Let us all just come to an agreeable decision as soon as possible so that we can each go about our own businesses. I really must be doing something else right now, and this meeting is taking far too long, don't you think?"

Arthur rubbed his temples and sighed, but it was only the slightest of exhales. "All right, fine."

I had to stop myself from snickering; everyone knew that Arthur was fucking terrified of Ivan. Well, you've already seen how horrendously, sweetly sadistic Ivan is, so I guess I shouldn't have to emphasize the fact that fucking with him is something you should never, EVER do — and what you've seen so far is just a fraction of what he's really like. I should be counting my lucky stars that he was there to convince Arthur for me. God bless this Russian.

"I'm going to send backup immediately," Arthur went on. "Meet them in Central Park in five minutes."

"Gotcha. By the way, Arthur," I added, a thought crossing my mind as quickly as a Weiner chasing a hotdog on legs, "what happens if I blow the assignment?"

"Then I'm kicking you out," he said straightforwardly.

"I think a better punishment would be feeding me some of the spinach casserole you tried to get me to eat the last time we had a 'business lunch'," I muttered out of the corner of my mouth.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"I didn't think so. Now get to work."

"Good luck, Alfie," Ivan said with a cheery wave. "You had better not let us down."

My screen went blank again, and I hopped off my chair. The problem with working with these people was that they almost never gave me enough of the information I needed. But being who I am, I was able to pick up enough.

"Me, let _them _down?" I told myself with a grin. "Over my dead body I will."

Making all the necessary arrangements, I rented a limo to drive me to Central Park. I know, I know, it's not that much of a walk, so why not do it myself? The simplest answer to that would be that an average- but good-looking guy wearing an expensive-looking suit coming out of a cheap-looking apartment complex in broad daylight was bound to call attention, so what better way to disguise myself than in a limo? You'd be surprised how many people have told me that my logic is bullshit, but personally, I don't find anything wrong with it at all. In fact, I've never met anyone who's made more sense than me.

I securely locked my "Bat Cave" with the usual password and eye scan (yeah, I know that's cliché, too, but don't forget, I _paid _for this crap), and the moment I stepped out of the complex two minutes later, a sleek black limousine pulled up in the street. I couldn't help but grin.

The elderly driver rolled down his window and tipped his hat towards me. "Good morning, sir. Robert the limousine driver, at your service. Where to?"

"You sure got here quickly." I opened the door and got in. "To Central Park!"

Robert didn't even complain about how I had to rent a limo to drive somewhere that was only two blocks down. He was exactly the kind of driver I would respect: one who never asked too many questions. I understand that I'm going to need the patience for questions once I'm rich and famous, but for now I like to keep to myself. I've got plenty of time to practice my celebrity habits.

Robert dropped me off at Central Park and promised to wait for me across the road. Arthur hadn't given me the details on where I would be meeting my "backup", but I knew in my gut where they were going to show up.

And before you could say "Supercalifragilisti —" er, something, I was sitting by the Bethesda Fountain, tapping my foot rhythmically to the pop music that a group of high school girls nearby were practicing a cheerleading routine to. I could almost feel their eyes burning through me as they each tried to outdo one another in the hopes of being noticed by me. Yep, I was ever the popular little bastard. I checked my Rolex (yes, _Rolex_) wristwatch.

_So my backup's late. They don't usually take more than a minute. Then again, coming all the way here from another country has to take at _least _—_

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

My head snapped up. _I recognized that voice._ Walking in my direction was a man with a face I knew only too well, and hewas attracting more attention than I did, despite the fact that this was _my _turf. His wavy, light blonde hair, a long, stray strand that ended in a curl, and that polar bear… I can't believe HQ actually sent _him_. In any case, I guess he's better than nothing. But _dammit_, why couldn't it have been someone — anyone — else?

"Hey, Mattie," I greeted.

"Hi," he said with a kind smile. "Arthur sent me to help you out, so we'd better get going, huh?"

"Absolutely right, bro," I said.

Meet Matthew Williams. He's… well, he's my brother. Not biologically, though. He's not American, either. Mattie's Canadian, brought up by some lecherous French twenty-something with six o'clock shadow, and he looks a _lot_ like me, let me tell you (the Canadian, not the Frenchman — urgh, no way, that'd be gross), but I will _always_ think that I look a hundred and ten percent awesomer than him. He's pretty shy, and he has a thing for maple syrup and ice cream. It's kind of like an obsession, or a fetish maybe — fetish sounds less creepy. He's always carrying this bizarre talking polar bear with him, but no one ever questions it because he's… him.

The same girls who were showing off for me only a few seconds ago were now gazing at him and giggling and whispering excitedly to one another, and an old couple passing by even stopped to stare.

_Please, God, let it just be the polar bear._

I was about to tell Mattie how absolutely annoyed I was about this when I remembered what was waiting for us outside the park.

"C'mon, Mattie! I got this cool limo to take us to the chopper!" I told Mattie enthusiastically, dragging him behind me.

"Did — did you say… _chopper_?" Mattie whimpered.

"Well, duh. What do you think I said?"

Oh, haven't I mentioned the chopper to you yet? Sorry, my bad. Washington, D.C. is too far, as you would probably know if you listen in geography class, and catching an evening flight would test my patience beyond its meager limits, so I phoned an old friend of mine and he secured a helicopter for me. To be honest, I was actually more excited about the helicopter than the limo; I always get overexcited about flying, whether it's in an airplane or a hot air balloon or even a ride at an amusement park (or the occasional fighter jet). The thought of flying just really gets me pumped.

"And is it really okay for us to rent a limo, Alfred…?" Mattie asked me uncertainly as I marched along in front of him, kicking a soda can as I went.

"No worries," I said confidently, kicking the soda can so energetically that it flew high up in the air and landed in a trashcan a hundred feet away. A sexy redhead (wearing — quite rightly, too, since anyone with a bod like that has a responsibility to show it off — a see-through blouse and denim shorts) who was watching applauded me appreciatively.

"GOAL!" I yelled. "Haha! I've got some pull, remember?"

Mattie didn't look too sure about that, but what the heck, right?

True as his word, Robert the limo driver was waiting across the street, leaning against the hood of the car. I waved at him, and he opened the door for us. I let Mattie in first and whispered instructions into Robert's ear. He nodded, and I grinned.

"Thanks a lot, buddy," I said. "Oh, and step on it!"

And he did.

Mattie was obviously terrified, but I had no idea why. He was hugging his polar bear like a lifeline as the limo squeezed itself through the narrowest spaces and overtook around seven flashy Porsches. Robert may have been old, but he _definitely_ hadn't lost his driving skills. The trip was like a Ferris-wheel-roller-coaster-merry-go-round-bump-car-ride for me — the speed of the limo was incredible (and there wasn't a single scratch on its shiny black paint job afterwards, to boot), and I wondered whether he hadn't been a racecar driver in some of his earlier years. He must have been quite the ladies' man back when he was in his prime.

He swerved and turned this way and that, and in a record time of eighteen minutes, we arrived at our intended destination.

I stepped out and knocked on his window.

"That was like a carnival ride! And I mean that in a good way," I told him happily when he rolled it down. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a fat wad of cash bound by a rubber band. "Here's for all your trouble, Robert."

But Robert only shook his head and pressed the money to my chest with a gloved hand, not even bothering to see how much I was willing to pay him. "I'm an old man, sir," he said good-naturedly, watching Mattie get out of the back with wobbly legs in the rearview mirror. "I really have no need for such things anymore. And besides, it's been a greater honor driving for you today, Mr. America."

Hmm. This geezer was pretty sharp for an over-sixty.

"When did you notice?" I asked him shrewdly, stuffing the wad back inside my jacket.

Robert chuckled. "After all these years of driving people, I've gotten quite good at getting to know them simply by where they ask me to take them."

"Well, no use trying to lie about it now. Guilty as charged, gramps. You're one smart limo driver, I'll give you that," I said, rumpling my hair and smiling sheepishly. "Anyway, thanks again."

Robert tipped his hat and drove off, leaving me with a trembling Mattie and a polar bear that just didn't belong in the NYC summer.

The site was deserted, just as I'd anticipated. We were waiting outside an abandoned and crumbling building in a secluded area that wasn't easily accessible to anyone without a government ID or a suitcase full of bribe money.

It was supposed to have been a new mall, but the people who had worked on the project mysteriously decided to cease all progress with it. I know why, though. They _had_ to vacate this place because it was going to be used for our purposes. And anyway, the whole thing was just for show — they never really _were_ going to set up a mall here, because the folks who were building it were with us. We only let them build the thing halfway and forget about continuing it any further as an excuse for putting up signs on the roads that came down this way saying that this was "a dangerous area", and that "pieces of falling debris" from the unfinished construction might "injure" or possibly kill the occasional, unsuspecting, idiotic passerby.

The building was around a kilometer off the main road, but the signs were a precaution we needed to take. Of course, it was still quite sturdy (with the leaning support beams and cracked cement pillars serving as a convincing warning to anyone who was stupid enough to ignore the signs and come this far), ensuring that I, or any of the others that might be with me, for that matter, didn't actually get hurt — but that was something the public didn't need to know. That way, this site could be used more freely and without arousing suspicion from conspiracy theorists — but seriously, though, those guys are just suspense thriller slash UFO slash detective soaps junkies who have their so-called "headquarters" set up in their grandmas' basements. Still, it won't hurt anyone if our organization plays within the lines — y'know, in the case some whackbag actually believes those moronic conspiracy theories.

"So… uh… where's the chopper?" Mattie said nervously.

"She should be here soon," I said, squinting up at the azure blue sky. It was a bit cloudy, but that was perfect; it's just what I needed, actually. A little extra cover from the prying eyes of nosy TV reporters and bored housewives was a definite plus.

"Er… 'She'…?"

And just then, I saw a tiny black speck come over the horizon.

"She's coming!" I told Mattie, waving my arms at the speck and jumping up and down like a maniac.

Within moments, the chopper had landed, sending dust and bits of rubble flying as the blades slowed and eventually came to a stop.

The pilot hopped out and flashed me a big smile. "Hey, boss," he said.

"Hey," I replied, still staring admiringly at the shiny black helicopter. I clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks for coming all the way down here, Ricky."

"No problemo. I actually just got Sally here" — Sally, that's the name of the chopper — "all tripped up," Ricky said, stepping away from the chopper. "I got all the doo-hickies tuned, and she's been polished to a finish. Ain't she a beauty?"

"Got that right." I couldn't agree more. If Sally were a human, I'd _so _date her.

"You'll be fine from here, then?" Ricky asked.

"Absolutely!" I said. "The stuff's all inside, right?"

"Yep, all ready," Ricky answered dutifully. "I dealt with all the paperwork, too, so you don't have to get caught up in it. I'll get 'er back from you in a couple weeks, but 'til then she's all yours, boss."

"Thanks a bunch, Ricky," I said, shaking his hand. "Don't forget to drop by my place sometime this month — you deserve a few appreciation gifts!" I turned to Mattie. "Hop in, Matt! You're in for the time of your life!"

For some reason, Mattie looked like he wanted to throw up real badly.

I found my good old bomber jacket waiting for me in the cockpit. Greeting it like a friend I hadn't seen in a long time, I put it on, and immediately I felt like I could fly this chopper to the moon and back. I felt like I could do anything.

I've flown aircrafts before this, so sitting in the pilot's seat felt a thousand times better than sitting in a luxury massage chair. I know what you're thinking; I'm only nineteen years old, so how in the freaking world did I get a license to fly this thing? But more importantly, how could I possibly have had _any_ sort of experience? It's way too hard for me to explain, so maybe I'll leave that for later when I have time. What I'm focused on now is getting this baby airborne!

"Fasten your seatbelt, bro," I yelled over my shoulder, "'cause it's gonna get crazy!"

I made Sally climb skyward as Ricky waved us off. The sound of the wind pounding against the glass and the hypnotic roar of the spinning rotors reminded me of the time when I used to be able to fly every single day. I couldn't resist it — I fist-pumped the air and gave a shout of laughter as I accelerated through the clouds and raced towards the sun.

Washington, D.C., here we come!

* * *

><p>By the time I touched Sally down in an isolated location, Mattie had already blown chunks all over the floor. I didn't make an effort to mop it up. I was confident that it would be gone by the time I returned.<p>

"Dude, it wasn't _that_ bad," I said, shrugging of my bomber jacket and rubbing him comfortingly on the back. "The vomit was definitely nastier. Yeah, sure, I made a few spins and loops, but that was to add a little _sizzle _to your first helicopter ride! And come _on_; don't tell me you didn't like Sally! She's the best in the business!"

"S-S-S-Sorry," Mattie said. "I'm j-just not used t-to helicopters."

Again, we were someplace completely deserted, a landing pad that our people set aside for such occasions as this one. There wasn't a soul in sight.

"Let's go, Mattie," I said. "Judging by the pictures Arthur showed me, we don't have long until those things go berserk."

Mattie agreed, but in the end I still had to piggyback him all the way to the Washington Monument — and even though he didn't feel any heavier than a sack of paper clips to me, walking that distance with a person and a polar bear slung over your shoulders while people gawked at you as though you were some kind of freakshow was still a crapload of work. He owed me _big_ time.

I set him down on the grass and let him breathe for a while; he looked unnaturally green — or maybe that was just the grass. I, on the other hand, despite the long trudge here, felt great — that was generally the aftereffect flying had on me (these include hyperactivity, over-excessive smiling and/or laughing, and a voracious appetite for anything hamburger related). I just didn't understand Mattie; he almost never got to do things like skydiving or bungee-jumping or helicopter-sailing or any other dangerously fun, adrenaline-generating pastimes, so I just gave him a once-in-a-lifetime experience! He should really be thanking me on bended knee right now.

My eyes swept the area. There were a lot of people at the National Mall today, most of them Japanese tourists (the teenage girls, who made up the majority of the group, were wearing micro-miniskirts and had hair colors that varied from black to brown to blonde to bubblegum pink) with cellphone cameras, and there were huge crowds milling around outside the Mall's many museums. I could see each and every monument and building from my lofty vantage point by the Washington Monument — the U.S. Capitol, the Jefferson Memorial, the Reflection Pool, and I could even slightly make out the White House in the distance. I wondered when I would get to play b-ball with the Pres again.

I heard Mattie groan on the ground next to me.

"You okay?" I said, crouching to poke his cheek. It was squishy. Like a marshmallow. It sorta made me hungry, thinking about marshmallows in my lunchless state.

"Y-Yeah," Mattie said shakily, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Is Kumajirou all right, too?"

"What, you mean the bear?" I said. I pointed to the bush nearby, where the polar bear was snoozing. "It's asleep, dude."

Mattie sighed with relief. "At least he isn't hurt."

I felt somewhat annoyed. How the fuck could anyone get hurt if _I _was the one flying? That's got to be the best guarantee anyone could ever hope for!

"Do you have the stuff, then?" I asked Mattie, staring up at the pinnacle of the insanely tall monument.

"No, but my contact does. He should be here soon. He lives close by, so I asked him if he could help us today," Mattie said, getting slowly to his feet and glancing over his shoulder as though this contact of his would pop out of the ground or materialize out of thin air. Well, I did know a few people who _could_ do that, so I guess it wasn't entirely impossible for it to happen.

"Oh, good," I said, stretching my arms and flexing my fingers. I was spoiling for a fight. "At least it's three of us instead of two now!"

And as though on cue, Mattie's "contact" came walking up the hill toward me, carrying an aluminum briefcase and sticking out like a sore thumb. He was smoking a cigar, his dreadlocks were tied back in a ponytail, and his dark skin was shining with sweat — but maybe that was because his crisp black suit seemed kind of tight.

"Hey," I said as he approached, throwing the cigar onto the ground and crushing it with his heel. "Thank God you're here, dude, it'd be a real pain in the butt if me and Mattie had to handle this without ya."

"Well, you'd better thank _him_," the man said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and nodding at Mattie. "He was the one who called me over in the first place. Even if you were being massacred by an alligator, I wouldn't come to help you out. I'd probably join the bloodbath and stop butchering you only when physically restrained."

This guy is Cuba. No one knows his real name because he chooses to go by his nation name instead. He's a good friend of Mattie's, and even though he confuses Mattie with me most of the time, he hates my guts. Why? Oh, I'll tell you why: 'Cause I totally kicked his sorry backside in _World of Warcraft_, that's why! He still can't let that go. The man sure can hold a grudge.

"Hey, Matt," Cuba said, giving Mattie the briefcase he was carrying. "I brought the equipment you asked for."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Cuba," Mattie said. Mattie focused his eyes on me with a determined expression. "Are you ready, Al?"

I flung off my suit jacket and heard a dull crack, but I didn't feel the slightest bit concerned. Never mind the iPhone, we were facing an international crisis — and I could always just buy a new one; I was loaded, after all. "I was born ready," I said, rolling up my sleeves. I ruined the mood of the moment when I grinned. "I've always wanted to say that."

Mattie unclasped the briefcase's locks with two satisfying _clicks_ and pushed the lid up. The lid resembled a keyboard.

"Secure the perimeter, Mattie," I said, hearing a note of clear authority in my voice that I'd never heard there before. It sounded right somehow.

"Roger that."

Mattie's fingers danced on the keys, and I felt a fleeting rush of wind pass us by.

Inside the briefcase, nestled between protective pieces of foam, were three pairs of ordinary-looking glasses and three tiny silver guns the size of pea-shooters — not remotely terrifying, but trust me; these things did worse than kill.

Mattie distributed the guns and glasses among the three of us. I took off my own and tucked them inside the pocket of my jacket, which I stuffed under the bush Mattie's polar bear was sleeping on. Putting on the glasses I'd received from Mattie, I wheeled around, and sure enough, there was chaos everywhere.

* * *

><p>I'm going to let you in on a little secret: I work for a top-secret organization. We call ourselves "The World". Yeah, pretty whacked up, huh? But you'll get it after I explain. The World is, essentially, a large group of skilled people; one from each country. Ivan Braginski and Arthur Kirkland, the guys that I'd been speaking with earlier, are only two of my many colleagues, representing Russia and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland respectively. The three of us make up the leaders, the Powers, of our organization. I happen to be the representative for the United States of America.<p>

No, not just that.

I _am_ America.

I was born a very, very long time ago. I'd been little more than a toddler when I awoke in the middle of a vast plain, and from there I'd had to fend for myself, doing everything I could to ward off the invasion attacks of other, older, and more experienced nations. My physical body had aged like a normal human's until I'd reached the age of nineteen, at which point the aging process suddenly stopped. I'd never really understood why I stopped aging, or why I didn't die; it was only recently that I discovered who I really was. I'd led an ordinary life as a seemingly ordinary human, and I've been many things since; a bellhop, a cab driver, a paperboy, a janitor, a student, a police officer — but I'd always known that I didn't fit in. And no matter how many faces I've taken on, I'm a true-blue an air force pilot in my heart. The thrilling sensation of being able to fly that high up and see the earth from such a unique perspective is something I can't describe with words; there just aren't enough of them.

I may look like a kid, but in reality, I'm more than two hundred years old.

I'm beginning to feel it in my bones.

It's… wearing me out. Do you have any idea how tiring it is to live this long? I've been in so many wars and feuds that I can't even count them. I've endured harsh words and betrayals. I've stood helplessly by as comrades and friends fell around me. It had driven me insane. I don't remember how many times I'd tried to kill myself out of grief. It was maddening that I couldn't slay myself.

But when I'd joined The World, I'd entered another life.

I met people with whom I shared a special bond, people who understood me, even people who had gone through a lot worse than me. For once, I felt like I belonged. And for once, I knew who I was.

I am the embodiment of the Land of the Free. I am a World Power. I was born a very, very long time ago, and not a day goes by that I forget my identity since becoming a part of my organization.

I am Alfred F. Jones; the United States of America. In my heart, I am an air force pilot. But right now, I'm an agent of The World.

* * *

><p>Through the specially tinted glasses, I could see an enormous shadow with a vague humanoid form standing next to the Washington Monument. The shadow looked like a bizarre moving sculpture of clay drenched in crude oil, dripping its filthy black evil all over my beautiful capital. It had a dark, ominous aura settling about it like a poisonous miasma, and it was emitting a hazy, foul-smelling smoke from a gaping hole where a mouth should have been. This shadow was only one of a dangerous breed of thought-entities. I had fought hundreds of monsters like this one. And just like all the others, it had to be destroyed.<p>

I aimed.

"Target sighted," I said under my breath, and I fired the gun.

The effect was instantaneous; it was like a small explosion: The bullet shot out of my gun, and for the briefest moment it halted in midair, glinting innocently in the light of the sun — before igniting and launching itself at the shadow, twisting around the monster's body like a brilliant orange snake, leaving a trail of sparks behind it.

The shadow struggled and flailed, trying to free itself of the fiery rope that bound it while grappling at the towering pillar of the Washington Monument in a futile attempt to tear it down. The streamer of bright flame held, squeezing the artificial life out of the shadow.

The shadow seemed determined to destroy the pillar, struggling against the bonds that cut into its oily exterior. It was trying to pull the monument out of the ground, like a naughty brat uprooting a flower. I nearly retched. It was sickening to watch these things deface my homeland.

And although I wanted more than ever to make the vile monster explode into a million tiny dust motes right then and there, this was the part where my job was to observe.

I pressed a small button on the side of my gun. The end of the flaming ribbon started to crackle and spit like a firework, and then, without warning, the whole thing detonated and set the shadow ablaze.

I watched as the shadow dissolved into nothing, still on fire, before the orange flare grew smaller and smaller and burned out entirely, leaving a small black scorch mark on the grass. The air was rent with the smell of garbage and burning rubber. I wrinkled my nose with disgust.

_No mercy._ That is The World's golden rule.

"That was some impressive fighting, Al," Mattie said, making me jump. He somehow ended up standing next to me, holding his gun limply in his right hand and surveying the scene with a serene expression.

"When did you get there?" I said blankly, my heart still hammering from the adrenaline rush. "And where were you the whole time I was risking my neck here? Don't tell me you've secretly been going through ninja training."

"No, no, nothing of the sort," Mattie said with a small chuckle. "Mr. Cuba and I simply went somewhere quiet and had bagels together. Neither of us had had lunch yet, you see, and we didn't want to disturb you while you were in your element."

I scowled. Well, _I_ hadn't eaten lunch either, but _I _wasn't running off to get bagels.

"Yeah," I said sourly, unconsciously rubbing my empty stomach. "Of _course_ you didn't. And didn't you know that you're not supposed to eat before vigorous exercise? You might get cramps and die."

"Well, it looked to me as though you could've handled that all by yourself," he said lightly. I don't think he was particularly bothered by the cramps thing. I was disappointed that my flimsy attempt at a witty response failed as miserably as I'd feared. "I didn't think you'd mind very much if we left for a few."

"Hell if I could," I said. "You know there's more to it than that."

Immediately after I'd spoken those words, miniature versions of the shadow started popping up all over the place. I noticed that Cuba, having returned from wherever it was that someone could enjoy a bagel in peace, was now behind me, stuffing a crumpled paper bag into his pocket.

Methodically, I stripped my already-puny gun of its silver plating until it was reduced to something that looked more like a syringe.

"Damn, I didn't get to do the exciting stuff this time 'cause I was so hungry," Cuba grumbled as he mimicked me and dismantled his own weapon, still chewing a bit of bagel.

"At least we won't have to waste any more of the bullets," Mattie said in a pacifying tone. "Manufacturing will have to thank us when we return them."

"Okay, ladies, let's save the chit-chat for later. We've got a job that needs doing. And you two officially owe me a bagel. On three, then," I said, positioning myself.

"One —"

Cuba wiped away a drop of sweat trickling down his cheek.

"— two —"

Mattie held up his syringe.

"— three!"

I kicked off from the ground hard, and I charged at the nearest shadow. This shadow was a hell of a lot feistier than the giant one, but I wasn't daunted. I dodged as it tried to strangle me with its sluggish arms. I hit it around the middle with a well-placed falcon punch and it staggered backward. While it was still distracted, I pounced on it and stabbed the back of its neck with my syringe, injecting it with… well, let me put it this way: If you'd been watching me, it would have looked as though I were injecting it with water.

Its body began to froth and bubble, and it melted like candle wax underneath me. I stepped out of the gooey puddle it left and stared at the sole of my shoe.

"Aww, crap," I muttered. "It got my shoe all gross! What am I supposed to wear to the Ritz _now_?"

As I rubbed my foot back and forth across the pavement to get rid of the muck, a slight movement caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.

"Heads up!"

Cuba was somersaulting two feet above me, looking astonishingly graceful given his hefty build. He landed perfectly on the head of a shadow that had been creeping up on me, knocking it facedown into the grass. He jammed his syringe into the thing's back and jumped off right as the shadow melted.

"Whoa," I said, flashing Cuba a thumbs up. "That was actually kind of cool. Thanks, dude!"

"No problem!" Cuba yelled back, and he raced off to fight, taking down a few more enemies with him.

And then, before I could even get my bearings, I was locked in the unyielding grip of another shadow. It was squeezing my windpipe so hard that I could barely breathe. I was fumbling for my syringe with my numb fingers when I felt the shadow release me. I fell smack on my face and reflexively gasped for air. Bewildered, I looked around and cricked my neck. _Ow_, that _hurt_.

"Are you okay, Al?" Mattie said, reaching out a helping hand. He looked sort of like an angel, with the sun illuminating him like that. He was only missing the wings. I slapped myself and tried to snap out of it. What was I _thinking_? I guess I must've hit my head pretty bad.

"I could've handled that myself, Matt," I said, slightly put out, as I let him pull me to my feet; I didn't like being outdone.

"There are plenty more where that came from," Mattie replied, pointing over my shoulder.

I ducked just as a shadow's gelatinous fist went whistling through the spot where my head had been moments before. I turned on my heel, jabbed the shadow's leg with the needle of my syringe, and scrambled away before it dripped all over me.

I fucking hate these things. But they sure do make for a good workout.

* * *

><p>"That took longer than I expected, considering that there's three of us," I said, brushing my hands together.<p>

We had managed to subdue and "melt" every shadow we came across within a span of twenty-one minutes — and we were actually slow enough to be an embarrassment.

Oh, that's right — I haven't told you the details of The World's motives yet, have I? All right, here goes. I'll try to explain the best way I can.

Let me start with the shadow things.

See, everyone — and I mean _everyone _— puts up fronts; it's human nature, after all. It doesn't matter what kind of masks we put on — it's inevitable. People pretend to be on the side of the government, they pretend to agree with political decisions, they pretend to wholeheartedly accept judgment, they pretend to be brave when they've already been scared out of their skins, and blah, blah, blah.

But what do they _really_ think? Do they secretly want to stand up and object every once in a while? Do they secretly want to suggest their own plans of action? Do they secretly want to be given the strength and leadership that would allow them to deal with what they thought was unwarranted? Do they secretly want to proclaim their own "justice"?

These "secrets", these thoughts, these negative feelings — the small comments a tired office worker might make about the unfairness of tax collectors, the soft murmurs of the abused yearning for freedom, the inaudible mutterings of people longing for change — all come together, powered by an invisible force that acted like a magnet. And one by one, the overwhelming emotions create something that take on a life of its own, a "shadow" whose only objective is to destroy.

We call those artificial life-forms "Negatives" — it's sort of like our twisted pun on old camera films. These "shadows" took it upon themselves to eradicate anything that served as a reminder of the prejudice that had brought them into being, such as memorials of reverence dedicated to supposedly "valiant" leaders. Negatives are dark dreams made solid.

The ironic thing is that no one can see them. We can only see them because of our special glasses. I'm not entirely sure what they're made of, since I've never talked to anyone who's worked on them in the Manufacturing Division, but without them we wouldn't be able to fulfill our duties. Manufacturing is the brains behind the brawn, as they say. What good would we, the field agents, be without the people who helped us See? To the rest of humanity, the Negatives are invisible, and, for all humanity knows, nonexistent, like the very thoughts that they are made of. Thoughts that no one can hear, see, or possibly understand. That's why they're in so much pain. They do everything they can to get attention. They want to be heard. They want the chance to be able to say what they want to say, what they _need _to say. They exist for voiceless rebellion.

And getting rid of them is our responsibility.

No one can see us when we're fighting them, either. Using an advanced technology that we can activate using briefcases similar to the one Cuba brought, we're able to secure a specific area within a protective barrier. The invisible dome expands as either we or the Negatives move beyond the original dimensions. Think of it as an unpoppable, super-stretchy bubble. The people outside the bubble are completely safe from the Negatives — and from us, for that matter.

We've been monitoring Negatives since they came into existence, and we've documented about every single thing there is to know about them. Based on our extensive research, there's only one way to put an end to them: We have to inject them with a little bit of _us_. It makes us sound like a really sick kind of mafia or cult, but it isn't anything like that at all. For example, what I use on the Negatives are grains of soil mixed with water from the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. It's technically not a part of _me_ per se, but it's still American soil. No matter how corrupt or dirty the politics get, no matter how many wars my country's "leaders" wage, as long as I myself am intact, full of compassion and devotion and fervor for justice, anything I get from my surroundings has the ability to override the darkness within the Negatives, and that's what makes them "melt".

Basically, The World's bent on trying to maintain peace on earth — or at least, as much of the peace we have left. If we just stand back and let the Negatives wreak havoc on the world, what good would that do? They don't have the ability to communicate the way they had always been meant to. They're mindless, and the only thing that keeps them going is the desire to obliterate the causes behind the anguish of those who either had no voices to speak with, or those who don't have enough courage to say anything. The Negatives can't speak, they can't hear, they can't smell, and they can't see. The closest thing they've got to "seeing" is the potent atmosphere that they sense when someone with a particularly strong sense of justice is nearby. Justice….

Maybe that's why I was born. I had never really known why. But… maybe this is the reason. Maybe I had always been meant to protect the earth.

What is this? What is this feeling?

I… I think it's…

Relief…?

* * *

><p>"Good job, guys," I told Cuba and Mattie proudly. "We TOTALLY kicked bad guy ass today!"<p>

Mattie smiled, bending over and deactivating the barrier with the keyboard inside the briefcase. "I'm only glad I could help, Alfred." He lifted his polar bear off the bush and hoisted it onto his shoulders.

"Whatever," Cuba said. He was already walking away and lighting himself a new cigar. "I'm goin' home. I've still gotta prepare supper."

"I should be getting back as well," Mattie said. He ran to keep up with Cuba. "Francis must be worried sick. And he says we're having pancakes for dinner and vanilla ice cream with maple syrup for dessert!" He smacked his lips. "I've been looking forward to it all day, so I'm going home, okay? Bye, Al! Don't eat too much fast food or you'll gain weight. You'd better not be fat the next time I see you!"

That Frenchman spoiled Mattie too much, but he brought him up well enough. Matthew was a good kid.

I raised my hand in farewell and grinned. "In your dreams, buddy boy!"

I picked up the briefcase and brushed the grass stains off my pants. Sure, I'd get it back to HQ for them. After all, it's the least I can do for Matt's and Cuba's help. I retrieved my jacket from under the bush and checked my iPhone — there was just the tiniest of cracks in the lower left-hand corner. And as I'd predicted, it started to ring. My colleagues sure do catch on fast. Then again, they'd been watching the fight from the beginning to end. It's not that they're stalkers or anything creepy like that (even though I _am _a guy worth stalking). It's just that they're… uhh… sort of like my overbearing family.

Please, remind me again why I've never had a steady girlfriend.

"_Don't wanna be a Canadian idiot!_" Weird Al Yankovic sang loudly as the electric guitar rocked out in the background.

I took the call.

"We did awesomely, huh?" I said energetically, unable to stop myself from smiling from ear to ear. Accomplishments like this always left me feeling elated.

"Yes, well done, well done," Arthur Kirkland said grudgingly, not sounding like he was praising me at all. He sounded like he was mocking me, actually. "Now would you get your head out of the clouds? You have some paperwork to do."

_Maaaaybe_ he was just feeling jealous, because while I'm being awesome and badass out in the field he's stuck in Britain answering calls and sending e-mails and faxing papers. Talk about bitter, huh?

"Ugh, you know how much I hate paperwork," I groaned, loosening my tie and throwing my jacket over my shoulders with my free hand. "You've been hounding me about work nonstop since this afternoon. The acrobatics you need us to do over here's no sweat, but teenagers should _never _have to do paperwork. It's like homework — only it's official. And besides, don't I deserve a little break after the awesome job I did? You _were _watching, right?"

"Stop complaining," Arthur scolded, reminding me of the strict parent I'd never had, "and do as you're told. Wanker."

"Yes, _mommy_," I said in a mocking tone. "Tell _daddy_ that I'll be home right away. I sure hope you made something _edible_ for dinner."

Before Arthur could even think of a good comeback, I ended the call and chuckled to myself as I made a beeline for Sally, glinting like a jewel in the sunset.

Having the last word when it came to Arthur always felt so satisfying.

When I reached Sally at last, feeling completely at peace with my surroundings, my jaw fell open. I could smell something horrible coming from the inside of the chopper. Warily, I approached — bad idea; I almost gagged. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand automatically, my eyes watering. Was it a corpse? Sure smelled like one. I dared to step closer.

Mattie's puke was still there.

It smelled _disgusting_, like a milk-and-cheese-and-meat-and-raw egg-shake gone bad. Only worse.

And a note was sitting neatly on top of it. It was written in a neat, flowing script, which I immediately recognized. It made me want to pull my phone back out, dial that bastard's number, and cuss at him until my battery ran dead.

There were only eleven words on that piece of paper: _"I thought you should clean up after yourself for a change."_

You win today, Kirkland. But I'm not going to let you beat me next time.

* * *

><p>This is a one-shot (told from America's point of view, obviously XD) that I worked on some time ago. I'm sorry if my description of New York is inaccurate, I don't live in the States, you see. I got all the information off the Internet, so if I'm wrong, you know what to blame. XD<br>I'd always toyed with the idea of an organization like The World, and the result of that idea is this fanfic. Do you guys like it? Is it too long for a one-shot? OTL  
>PM's and reviews please, and if you find anything amiss about my description of the U.S., please tell me so that I can correct it as soon as possible. Thank you very much! ^^<p> 


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